


A Life Most Impious And Wicked

by mayachain



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Happy Gay Farmers, M/M, Mithraism, Mythology - Freeform, Nesting, Pet Names, Post-Canon, Priorities, Sexual Mores
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 16:18:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2658410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayachain/pseuds/mayachain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The shame Marcus felt after surrendering his body to Esca was eating up the joy of building their new life. There was comfort in the names Esca calls him in a language he was still learning to understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Life Most Impious And Wicked

**Author's Note:**

> Written in answer to a prompt by **lisle_galen** on [ninth_eagle](http://ninth-eagle.livejournal.com/341520.html).

Marcus tried not to betray the unrest that was in his heart, not to wake the man that was asleep beside him. Earlier tonight he had at last given in to the query in the movements of Esca’s hands. Now, the inescapable echo of youthful lessons had Marcus feel as had the scorn of his peers before he had redeemed the Aquila name. Only this time it was not a dishonour brought upon Marcus and his mother through a supposed fault of his father’s. Mithras, this shame was all of Marcus’ own doing. 

No Roman could lower himself as Marcus had mere hours ago and still call himself a man, much less a citizen. Yet it had been an act Marcus had committed willingly, an act he had enjoyed enduring. His head had been incriminatingly empty of virtuous thoughts as Esca had prodded him downwards. With Esca around him, the surrender of his body had become something Marcus had allowed for his own sake... for their combined sakes.

It was nearly dawn when Marcus fell into an uneasy sleep. In the morning, he was all but intent to say, ‘Esca, it is my wish that we never debase ourselves so again’ – until he saw the spark of gladness in Esca’s eyes that, even months after having gained his freedom, remained far too rare a sight. It would have taken a far stronger man than Marcus, then, to deny that he had craved what they had done.

Esca could never know. Marcus had done things few self-respecting Romans would do before, though none had ever had this kind of import. 

Rome had harmed his spear-bearer enough already.

* * *

Some nights Esca would groan into Marcus’ ear, bite out words in his native language as he shifted Marcus’ limbs to their satisfaction. While they were mostly similar to what a Roman ‘slave’ had picked up north of the Wall, Marcus was still learning to recognize them. He relished the sounds of Esca voicing his estimation and took no small amount of pleasure later on in solving the riddle of the unfamiliar exclamations.

It was only when the act was finished, when Marcus had found the proper position for his leg and Esca had assured himself that Marcus would not be awoken by it until several hours into the night... When Esca had slung an arm around Marcus’ chest and had drifted away into sleep... Marcus would know peace, then, but the longer he would listen to Esca breathing, the more insistently would his thoughts work their mischief.

The sliver of guilt he felt for falling asleep so much easier on the nights when it had been Esca who had yielded his body to Marcus – Esca, who was also a citizen of Rome – paled in light of the worry for his own standing. After all, Esca saw no shame in his or Marcus’ demeanour.

* * *

Before the beginning of May, the only outsiders that had been repeatedly to the parcel of land Marcus had chosen in reward for his services to Rome had been the workers that had erected the house for them before Uncle Aquila had allowed Marcus and Esca move out. For a few days their horses had had the company of two lads that had helped with their spring planting – Esca lived in hope that the labour of their own hands would avert permanent hires until the following year. And they had paid their respects to the former Decurion who owned the eastwards property and played hosts when he had returned the visit.

Now the man was once more enjoying a cup of wine and their table and sharing with them the news of his eldest son’s upcoming wedding. “I do not know whether I should tell him it is a few years late or far too soon,” he confided. “Perhaps it is just as well that the two of you seek no women until you have found your feet – with you, Aquila, a soldier most of your adult life, and you, Esca, only recently a freed-man.”

Marcus agreed politely and did not sleep that night out of dread of the expression on that friendly face had their neighbour but guessed at Marcus’ deprivation.

* * *

The darkness did not leave Marcus’ thoughts during the weeks he and Esca spent raising the walls of a small bath-house, a task Esca was far from convinced was necessary. Soon, the ruminations were also affecting his mood during the day, which made it harder and harder to hide the cause to the heaviness in his heart.

Piecing together the Brigantes language, much more than the prospect of proper hygiene and the successful covering of Esca’s favourite mare, was a small source of relief Marcus seized during those months. In the absence of proper lessons, which they had agreed to postpone until the less busy winter season, Marcus learned as best he could by overhearing Esca and making connections between what little common British he knew and what they were doing at the time. Sometimes Esca would provide translations, but he did not often give those when he was merely thinking aloud or addressing the horses. Marcus especially liked it when the meaning of Esca’s night-time words would unexpectedly reveal itself days and weeks afterward.

He fought not to treasure the one he was almost certain meant ‘husband’.

* * *

The mares’ pregnancies were going well and they were making progress building their bath-house. They had finished the outer walls and had spent the forenoon hoisting upwards the logs that would become key parts of the roof. It might have been sensible to hire a few men to do this particular work, but Marcus and Esca both wanted to see if they could not accomplish it by themselves, thus not adding to the money they had already paid to have flooring and pipes. 

“Esca, do you go and fill us our water-cups,” Marcus suggested once they had adjusted the most recent log, acknowledging that they were not finished and Esca would have an easier time of jumping down their makeshift scaffold than Marcus would have climbing. It was therefore that Esca was down on the ground when the log he had previously deemed secure unexpectedly shifted from its position and threatened to fall. Marcus, surprised into yelping a short “Mithras!”, caught the sliding trunk between his hands and twisted so he could support it with his shoulder until Esca was able to help put it right again. 

“I am not sure why it did that,” Esca confessed uneasily when they were as sure as they could be that there would be no further accident. And although Marcus professed they had both been equally at fault, he turned and gave Marcus’ disburdened shoulder a brief rub in apology. Then he called Marcus an indistinct name before retrieving the water Marcus had not yet had a sip of.

Marcus examined the logs critically. He found himself hoping that this was all the excitement they would have that particular day, and that he would yet do something else that would earn him a look that fond.

* * *

Marcus all but lost his resolve toward Esca’s carefreeness the day a passing courier brought them a letter from Uncle Aquila. Among gladly received news from Caleva and his Uncle’s household, there was a paragraph that began, _Progress is still made in the effort to rebuild Isca Dumnoniorum._

He had not been the fort’s centurion in a long time. Marcus might, through luck, good care and sheer stubbornness, have regained his ability to fight, but he would never command men on behalf of the Empire again. His injury already lessened him as a soldier – how much longer could he diminish himself as a man? 

That night Marcus thought Esca must sense something was wrong, for though he did not ask, once Marcus had found the correct recumbence for his leg Esca shifted himself oddly close, the cradle of his strong arms holding Marcus exactly where he belonged.

* * *

It was late in August when they inaugurated the small bath-house, which might have still been lacking the decorations and some of the luxuries visitors might expect but was fully functional. Sceptical towards its usefulness as Esca had been, he had happily taken advantage of the opportunity to tease an undressed Marcus.

Hours and a change of location later Marcus could not take the slow caresses any more. He thrashed about wildly, which caused Esca to mutter at him with what Marcus dimly perceived as an admiring laugh just before the pace increased at last.

Once he had caught his breath a little, Marcus was moved to lift his head sufficiently to meet Esca’s gaze and ask, “The word you called me, I have it in my mind that I have heard it before – what was it?” By now he had a treasury of British words as spoken by the Brigantes. He was irked that he did not recall this particular one.

A light blush spread across Esca’s face at the question, yet he answered without hesitation. “Tonight I have called you a master builder, my beloved, my spearman and my bull,” he specified. “I – did you not wish me to?”

“No,” Marcus hastened to deny, “not at all. This ‘master builder’ was only curious about the latter.” He took care to lie down again, as he did not want to draw attention to the peculiar feeling that had taken hold of him.

He nearly inquired of Esca why he would call Marcus by such a name – a bull, that was, as he felt that ‘spearman’ was self-evident and Marcus had bestowed a ‘beloved’ or two on Esca in Latin. But as Esca settled down and gathered Marcus against him with the intent of sleep, he clarified, “It is only that you are strong, it requires my every skill to ride you and not fall off.”

“Ah, it is well, then,” Marcus decided, resting his hand on Esca’s arm and shifting his leg a few times. As he felt Esca’s breath evening out against his neck, he wondered, _A bull._

That night he was too warm and comfortable to chase sleep without avail.

* * *

The night-time exchange returned to Marcus’ thoughts frequently throughout the next day. He examined it while tending to the horses, divagated to it while planning the journey to the market a day’s ride southwards that he or Esca would soon have to make, and mulled it over as he held in place the piles that Esca had long wanted to reinforce their stable with.

 _Mithras favoured the bull._ In all the stories Marcus had ever heard, when the newborn god had been wandering the world in search of an opponent against whom he could measure his wit and strength, it had been the bull whom he had sacrificed to bring new life to the earth they both walked. 

The bull – succumbing to Mithras’ superior will – perhaps even giving his submission voluntarily because he in turn had deemed Mithras’ cause worthy – had been what had given everything Marcus could see around him life... had given life to the earth for the Roman Empire to even be.

It was a most pleasant thought. “It is as if Esca represented Mithras and I the bull,” he explained to their pregnant mares, “at least, it is most often so. Not that I ought to be presumptuous enough to cast myself in the role of gods, for all that Esca is glorious enough for it.” Esca had brought life and light into Marcus’ dreary existence ever since that first sight of him in the arena. He had struggled and endured and overcome so many trials that he must needs be worthy of such a comparison despite the firm distance he kept from Roman religion.

Perhaps tonight, when they had finished their days’ work and were once again enjoying the comforts of their bath-house, Marcus would recount to Esca the tale of how the sacred bull had shown Mithras all the lands of the world by dragging him by the very rope intended to keep him captive.

 

.


End file.
